Gone
by ToGoAndLetGo
Summary: Sometimes goodbye is the hardest thing to say.


_Sometimes I wish you would just die._

But then he immediately hates himself for thinking that. Knowing that his friend could wake up and never be the same, is it so wrong to want him to die? Why is he torturing him?

Wilson hated himself even more, no matter how many times he tried to justify the inner monologue. No change was the only constant phrase in his life anymore. He only checked vitals out of habit. There were no expectations of change. His heart no longer sank with disappointment. There wasn't a shred of hope in him, an experience that was new to Wilson. If there was one thing he'd always had with his life, with his patients and even with this situation, it was hope.

It was his face that still hurt to look at. The wounds had long since healed and a few had left scars. Those scars, in another time or instance would have no doubt been the subject of a mocking conversation. He would have used them as something to self-deprecate and snark about.

_"Chicks dig scars."_

_"You can tell them you go them from the motorcycle accident, you'll sound dangerous. Some women find danger sexy."_

_"I'll sound like a badass."_

The expressionless face was hard to swallow. House always had something going on in his head and it was always signaled on his features. Even in the rare moments when Wilson had seen his friend asleep, there was expression, a wrinkle or two in the forehead, some tenseness in his face that was undoubtedly from his leg pain.

_Are you in pain now? Does your leg hurt? _

He wondered how much awareness House had now. The older man wasn't brain dead, yet, and he knew most of the scientific answers to whether or not a man in a coma felt sensations. He'd never really know the answer, unless he were to go into a coma himself and live to remember it. He never had been in one. And House wasn't going to answer him. Not now. Likely, not ever.

_Please… don't die. I didn't mean it before. Come back. Make fun of me for worrying about you._

He'd stopped recording General Hospital two months after the motorcycle accident. He'd run out of tapes, had no desire to buy new ones and really didn't see the need anymore. What was he going to do with them when House did finally pass? Maybe he'd keep them, as a memory of his friend. He never watched the show himself, unless he happened to catch it while House had it on. Maybe now he'd start. Maybe if he did, he'd always feel closeness even when his friend was finally gone.

_Are you already gone?_

He longed for the days of House stalking the halls with his flaming cane and barking orders at his staff. He missed the times when the man would storm into his office, or tenderly hop the wall between their balconies to come in and avoid work, or get him to do something for him, or steal his lunch. His lunches lately remained painfully uneaten. He rarely ordered fries. He'd made that mistake of ordering fries and watching the door for House to come and steal some. Overhearing another patron order a Rueben nearly brought him to tears.

_Never eat fries again._

He'd sit there everyday, that was the habit he couldn't break. It wouldn't be all day; he'd stopped that after the second week. He simply couldn't take it anymore. Between appointments and clinic, Wilson could be found beside House in the ICU. He refused to let Cuddy move House out of ICU; he'd rather die than see House become the next Coma Guy. No. Moving House meant that hope was completely gone. He wasn't ready to give up that tiny, miniscule part of him that fantasized House's recovery.

_So maybe Hope wasn't completely gone._

The time had come. His brain was still functioning but it wouldn't be much longer. Wilson couldn't watch him suffer that way, organ systems shutting down, brain death; even House didn't deserve a death like that. House didn't deserve any death. House deserved to live longer than this, to experience being happy for once and to know that people cared about him and loved him. He deserved to know that people would miss him.

_Changed my mind. I don't want you to die._

He wasn't the one to turn off the machines. He barely wanted to be in the room. But he sat there, the older man's hand clasped in his own, limp, lifeless and heartbreaking. Wilson didn't look down. He didn't know where to look with his gaze finally resting on House's face. Waiting for the slightest change, he gripped his friend's hand tighter. Open your eyes. Moan. Groan. Bitch about something. Ask about General Hospital… anything. Don't die.

_"I'm probably never going to die, just so that you know." _

_"Yeah… you can have your delusions of immortality and I will live in reality."_

_"We'll see who has the last laugh when you die and I am still awesome."_

_"There can be only one Highlander."_

One machine shut down. House didn't move. The next machine shut down. House stayed the same. Final machine and there was no sign from the older physician. There was no fight. He always expected House to go out fighting. This was the final breaking point. He wasn't ready to say good-bye. He wasn't ready to let his friend, best friend, go.

"Greg… wake up. You can't die. You're not ready to die. Fight it. Please fight it!" He could feel the tears streaking his cheeks.

There was nothing but the sound of the flat-lining monitor. He felt a hand on his shoulder but he couldn't keep his eyes off his friend's face. He kept waiting. He wanted House to open his eyes and laugh at him for getting upset. He would love nothing more than for this to be an April Fool's joke. But it was June. House wasn't coming back. House wasn't waking up. House was gone.

_Sometimes I just wish you hadn't died._


End file.
